


Tattoed tears

by gutrots



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Sex, Coercion, Consent Issues, Crying, Dubious Consent, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, HYDRA Husbands, HYDRA Trash Party, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not Beta Read, Oblivious Steve Rogers, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-08-19 11:25:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16533704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gutrots/pseuds/gutrots
Summary: Let's talk about how it felt on my shoulders as it came pouring out my earsLet's talk about the face of our love and how it might look with the addition of tattooed tears





	Tattoed tears

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt at the HTP kink meme :  
> https://hydratrashmeme.dreamwidth.org/2807.html?thread=6400759#cmt6400759
> 
> Dubious consent warning for Steve/Brock, Brock is put in a situation where he can't refuse to consent, and Steve believes what's happening is fully consensual.

Brock Rumlow doesn't cry.  
  
He never gave it much thought, and so he wouldn't be able to tell if it's his less-than-ideal childhood or years of military training that made him that way, but fact is, he usually keeps his feelings to himself.

Unless it’s anger. He’s good at being angry, and as much as his superiors enjoy comparing him to a rabid dog when they think he’s out of earshot, it ends up getting him places eventually. Sadness, however, and frustration, grief and anguish and desperate desire, he keeps it all buried deep down beneath tough, scarred skin.  
  
It all changed slightly when Jack happened, all these years ago, handsome and strong and so entirely unpretentious, refusing to entertain Brock's _no homo_ bullshit from day one. Charming in a quiet, reserved manner, confident but never cocky, he somehow made his way through layers upon layers of feigned bravado and practised bad attitude, and by what Brock can only call _a goddamn miracle_  wasn’t repulsed by what hides underneath. And not like Jack is the most sentimental one out there, but the aura of quiet acceptance he carries within himself regardless of the situation, his selfless kindness and genuine honesty make Brock understand that maybe letting go every once in a while does not make him weak.

And so Brock cries when Jack touches him for the first time in a way that’s definitely not _just friends._ It’s nothing lewd, just fingers absent-mindedly tracing the length of his thigh when they’re alone with bad beer and worse movies, and Brock cries because he wants this so bad but he just doesn’t know _how_ , because it’s all feelings he doesn’t have words for besides _fag_ and _queer._ Jack doesn’t say anything as he wipes away at Brock's ugly tears, and Brock shuts his mouth before he ruins the moment with something like _stop it with this gay shit, Jackie._ Instead, he resolves to learn how to be tender.  
  
Months later, he cries when Jack has a run-in with an IED, when he's kept in an induced coma and half his jaw is hanging detached from his face, doctors shuffling about with stern expressions and grim prognosis. He cries when Jack comes out of surgery with a thick line of black stitches like barbed wire across his handsome features, and the nurses won’t say when he will wake up, and Brock can’t help but think that this is the worst possible circumstances for meeting Jack’s mother. He cries into Debra Rollins’ shoulder when she gently pries him away from Jack’s bedside, treats him to briny vending machine coffee and hearty home-made sandwiches and reassures him that it’s all going to be alright.  
  
A few years go by entirely too quickly and Brock cries on his wedding day, in front of the too populous Rollins clan and their STRIKE teammates and whoever else might be there, a little bit tipsy and so fucking in love, Jack holding him in his arms as he no doubt leaves wet stains on Jack's shirt. There’s dancing and toasting and it’s lavish in a simple, homely way that leaves Brock feeling warm and comfortable and so goddamn _right,_ and he doesn’t care when a stray tear or two make their way down his cheek as they walk into the reception, crowd cheering and a flurry of rice raining from the air. He cares even less when the night is coming to a close, when Jack holds him against his chest and presses a kiss into his hair, and he catches Debra’s fond smile over Jack’s shoulder and he knows that finally, this is it. This is family. This is home.  
  
He's crying right now, in his car parked in the driveway in front of Jack's house, which has not been Jack's but _JackandBrock_ 's for quite some time now. It’s late, there's a light on in the kitchen and the blinds are drawn so he can't see inside but Jack must be making tea or reheating dinner, finding ways to make this as easy as possible for the both of them. He’s always done that for Brock, diffuse and negotiate when his temper got the worst of him, and this will be no different. They will sit on the couch and talk about it and Jack will be gentle but firm with the way he asks Brock to move out. He will give Brock one last kiss, or maybe he won't, and send him on his way with a neatly packed overnight bag and a set of divorce papers already signed in looping cursive. And Brock will go back to his car and he will cry and cry and cry because it will all be his fault.

 

* * *

  
  
There's a sharp slap of skin-on-skin as Rogers fucks into him from behind, vice-like grip of his perfectly manicured hands certain to leave purple-yellow bruises on Brock's hips, ten even circles like ugly, rotting grapes to remind him of his shame. City lights do little to illuminate the darkness inside the skyscraper apartment and the air inside is heavy, heady in a way that’s less like arousal and more like an animalistic sort of frenzy. It smells like unwashed sheets and expensive cologne, like the kind of sex everyone always assumed Brock would enjoy, and he chokes on it as he barks a laugh, just to himself.   
  
He's sprawled on the bedding, ass up in the air and face smothered in the pillows, trying to muffle noises of discomfort. There’s jolts of burning, stabbing pain against the baseline of a steady thrum of tired muscle and this is it, this is HYDRA obedience at its finest. The bedframe bumps against the wall in a steady rhythm and Brock tries to focus on the sound, using the resounding _thump-thump-thump_ to disconnect from the sensation of feverish hands roaming down his flank and warm breath ghosting down his nape. The barely-there sensation makes him shiver with disgust, and he tries to let the steady, insistent noise overtake his brain, hoping it will drown out the background cacophony of Cap groaning and grunting and smacking him on the ass.

Rogers fucks like a porn star, and looks like one too, perfectly hairless and barely breaking a sweat, not a single blond hair out of place, and Brock hates this, hates how much he feels like he's an actor in a cheap smut flick, the two of them playing out a scene for some invisible audience. He hates how filthy he feels, back littered in angry, reddened bite marks and fat droplets of come dripping down the inside of his thighs, a testament to Cap's superhuman stamina. At least it hurts slightly less now, burning stretch reduced to a dull thrum of discomfort, two loads up his ass making up for how little Rogers cares for lube.  
  
Despite his apparent all-American sainthood, Cap sure likes it hard and fast, dirty Brooklyn punk coming out from underneath the propaganda pin-up facade. He’s not cruel, and he doesn’t aim to hurt, it’s just that his definition of pleasure seems to be taken right out of the porn Brock would force himself to watch when all his friends were chasing tail and he found himself lost in daydreams of firm muscle and sharp green eyes. He tries to make it good for him, Brock knows, his brief reassurance that he likes it that way too enough to send Cap on his mission of fucking him through the mattress.

And for all that he hates it, Brock lets himself be manhandled, hoping that if he plays his cards right it might be over quickly.  
  
That's why he pulls Rogers' hand away when two spit-slick fingers push their way into his ass. Why he forces himself to mutter what he’s hoping is a sultry _'C'mon, give it to me'_ when he knows it's going to hurt like a bitch, why he tries to fake breathy moans and whisper hungry _fuck me’s_ when Cap's dick jabs something inside him that shouldn't feel this painful. Why he rocks his hips back and meets Cap's thrusts when he groans a _'Yeah, you like that, you filthy slut?_ ', humid breath falling directly behind his ear, in that exact spot Jack will touch when he still has something to say but he’s all out of words, and all Brock wants is to put a black eye on that plastic-perfect face.  
  
It’s why he makes up some bullshit excuse about Afghanistan and explosions and nerve damage when Rogers' hand finds its way to his cock, hanging small and flaccid and disinterested between his trembling thighs, why he forces himself to moan louder as he reassures Cap that he likes it and _feels good_ and _c'mon, don't stop_.  
  
Because more than anything, he just wants it to be over.

Because all he wants is a different pair of hands on him, rough with callouses from guns and gear and whatever DIY project is in the works right now, but still so soft on his skin. He wants them to touch and soothe, to erase what’s being done, to make him feel beautiful and wanted and _good_ when all he can feel right now is _dirty._  
  
When Rogers first touched him, when he took off Brock's shirt and ran his fingers down his chest, bit at his neck like he was a starving animal, Brock tried to think of Jack. To close his eyes and sigh and moan like it's Jack doing all that to him. It feels so utterly wrong though, to think of Jack when he's got his guts full of superhero cum and every second feels like torture despite Rogers' good intentions.

And besides, he wouldn’t be able to reconcile the fantasy with reality anyway, even if he tried.  
  
Because despite his pragmatism and efficiency in the field Jack is one indulgent bastard when they're back home, spoiling Brock with good whiskey and steak dinners and damn good back rubs when they come back from a particularly gruelling mission. Because Jack enjoys it when they take their time, when Brock opens him with his fingers and tongue and that expensive kind of lube that doesn't dry out even when they've been at it for hours. He likes it when Brock fucks him slow and steady, makes him moan and writhe so delicately for a man his size, just because it feels good and there’s no need for shame. And he always holds Brock afterwards, a solid, warm weight at Brock's back as he comes down from the high of his orgasm, making all of his worries melt away with a gentle caress of elegant fingers along his flank.  
  
Face pushed deeper and deeper into the pillows with every thrust, Brock bites his bottom lip and tries not to cry, because he might have just lost all of that.  
  
(They talked about it, when Pierce first laid out his plan, excited, almost giddy as he announced his findings to Brock. _He likes boys, you see, dark haired and well-built and good with guns_ , he said, pleased smirk never leaving his face. And at first Brock didn't realise what that was about, not until Pierce explained in detail what he requires from his best soldier, his most loyal.  
  
They talked and Jack agreed, because anything seemed better than the cost of refusal, Brock demoted to private and shipping out to haji country on the next date possible. And Brock felt that way too, because Jack is too young and too handsome to be left a widower when Brock bites the dust somewhere in the middle of nowhere in jihad land. So they talked about it and talked about it some more, and Jack kissed Brock and held him like this didn't change anything between them.)

Messy hair clinging to a clammy forehead and metallic taste of blood invading his mouth where the skin of his lip must have finally given to relentless teeth, Brock wishes he'd said no, because being six feet deep down in Arlington would be so much better than the endless shame he feels right now.  
  
With one final groan Cap comes, too much muscle and inhumanely soft skin collapsing against Brock's back. He's knocked down into the mattress when his elbows and knees can't hold him up, muscle trembling with exertion. With one last ounce of effort he tries to crawl away, to escape the weight pushing him deeper into the bedding, too much skin-on-skin threatening to make him panic, to break the façade he’s forced himself to maintain. Rogers is panting like a hunting dog minutes after its teeth sink into its prey, and Brock feels downright sleazy when warm lips kiss their way down his nape. As much as the bulk of flesh pressed against his back will allow, he writhes and twists away, but that only encourages more unwanted affection, and so he resigns himself to closing his eyes and enduring.  
  
It feels sticky and disgusting when Cap pulls out of him with a wet _squelch_ , and Brock doesn't waste a second getting out of bed and into the shower, doing his best to ignore a pair of unsettling blue eyes following him to the bathroom. Rogers look content and sated, city lights below illuminating his dopey smile and relaxed muscle, making Brock feel more vulnerable than any interrogation ever did.  
  
Not even scalding hot water helps him feel any less dirty. He scrubs and scrubs until his skin is raw and red, and then some more, but none of it seems to wash away the filth from his skin. Hair dripping and flattened against his forehead, he picks up his clothes from the floor, ignoring the pain all over his body as he gets dressed. In his frantic haste he doesn’t notice as Rogers peels himself off the bed, tries to pull him in for a hug and a kiss the moment he’s ready to walk through the door. Too tired to keep up the act, he dodges the touch, doesn’t even bother saying his goodbyes.

It's a quick walk to his car and a straight route home, hair a mess, fingers numb and eyes suspiciously wet.

 

* * *

  
  
A muttered “I'm sorry” is all Brock can manage as Jack meets him by the door and pulls him into an embrace like Brock is about to collapse.  
  
“I know” Jack replies in that quiet, steady voice of his that always makes things better, except that it doesn't. Not right now. Because Jack is supposed to be angry, upset. He is supposed to ask Brock to leave, but the scenario isn't playing out as Brock anticipated and he's at loss. He wants to deny the undeserved forgiveness, to do this _right,_ as wrong as it all is, but he chooses to be selfish, to stay wrapped in those strong arms just for a moment longer.

“It's not your fault. I love you” Jack adds, and Brock doesn't understand.  
  
“I love you, and I'm sorry this had to happen. I'm here for you if you'll still have me” he continues and Brock stays still, confused and scared like he's a rookie out in the field all over again. He still doesn’t get why Jack isn’t blaming him, why he makes it sound like Brock should be the one to decide where they’ll go from here. And some part of Brock wants to choose to decide that they’re fine after all.  
  
They stay like that for a while, just holding on to each other, until Jack steers Brock out of the hallway and into the living room, makes him lay down on the sofa. Brock's t-shirt rides up as he settles down, head propped up on Jack’s thigh and legs curled towards his stomach, and a flash of panic crosses Jack's face when he spots bruises blossoming ugly and dark against Brock's olive skin.

Fingers reach out to touch him, but they still in mid-air, hovering uncertain.  
  
“Did he hurt you?” Jack asks, and Brock wishes there was something he could do to alleviate the resigned sadness in his voice.

There isn’t, so he just catches Jack’s hands in his and brings it to his hip, lets it rest there. Despite the pain lingering beneath the surface of his skin, the touch is soothing. Jack drags his thumb back and forth against the jut of Brock’s hipbone, and Brock wishes he could drift away into sleep like this, and wake up to find all this a distant nightmare. Just another dream to forget over late Sunday breakfast, Jack cooking up something hearty and savoury, accompanied by rich, dark coffee.  
  
Instead he forces himself to stay awake as he mumbles into Jack’s thigh, refusing to meet his eyes.

“Not intentionally, no. Turns out Cap likes it a bit rough, is all.” He tries to downplay it, how much it hurt. How much he hated every second of it. Jack is already tired enough, always picking up Brock’s loose ends, always dealing with his burdens. Brock can’t help but feel guilty for troubling him again.  
  
“You don't though. Why did you let him?”

Jack’s fingers move to thread through Brock’s hair as he no doubt spots the bite marks on his nape, and Brock is grateful that he can’t see Jack’s face from this angle, doesn’t have to deal with his solemn expression.  
  
“Figured it'd be over quicker if I do what he likes.”

Jack remains silent. There’s two fingers just behind Brock’s ear, rubbing along his neck, down to the collarbone, and Brock knows Jack wishes he could say something, but he can’t, not right now.With every tender motion of fingers against his skin, Brock is pulled together and falls apart all at once.

It’s too much, the silence, the weight carried in every minute movement, and Brock can feel the tears brimming and falling, an ugly onslaught like a downpour at the end of an already miserable day. His breathing picks up and he can feel the words trying to escape his throat, a desperate wave of unspoken truths that he knows Jack knows already, probably won’t care to hear, not amidst pitiful sniffling and a trembling voice.

“I'm sorry, Jackie. Never wanted anyone but you, swear to God I didn't” Brock mutters anyway, words growing desperate with every stammered breath.  
  
“Promised you it was gonna be you and me for good and I still want it that way.”  
  
“They made me do it. Wouldn't ever let anyone but you touch me, but they made me do it.”  
  
“I'm so fucking sorry. I fucked this up. I fucked us up.” He knows he’s bawling now, messy and ugly and terrible, like he’s never cried before. Somehow, despite all that, Jack pulls him up into his lap, lets him rest his ugly, wet face in the crook of his shoulder as he embraces him, rubs soothing circles into his trembling back.

“You didn't. I love you” Jack says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. Like the mess Brock dragged them into doesn’t exist.

Eventually, Brock’s crying ceases. His breathing evens out and an overwhelming tiredness hits him all at once. More than anything, he feels _empty._  
  
"They'll make me do it again. And I don't want no one but you touching me. But they'll make me" he says into Jack’s shoulder, into the scent of cigarettes and fresh laundry and home cooking.  
  
"They won't. I'll take care of it. I'll take care of you" Jack reassures, and all Brock wants is to believe it.

After all, he’s always been selfish.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Let's talk about the torn up skin on my fingers right where it meets my fingernails  
> Let's talk about what you call sliding carefully is seriously slipping out of control
> 
> \- Tattoed Tears by The Front Bottoms
> 
> still not 100% happy with how this lil doodle turned out but whatevs


End file.
